


you left your mark on me

by karnsteins



Series: the descent [4]
Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Possession, M/M, PTSD Related Dissociation, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karnsteins/pseuds/karnsteins
Summary: Dallas and Ponyboy become further and further intertwined in the willing possession they have. Until they aren't.follow up toi don't want to rest in peaceandwe can haunt each other's dreams
Relationships: Ponyboy Curtis/Dallas Winston
Series: the descent [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911538
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22





	1. and left your mark on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the hearings, after the trial, Ponyboy had never told anyone exactly what it felt like to exist. He hadn't the words for it, what it felt like to float through things, to forget strings of hours or days at once, swimming in it alone. It had taken weeks to slowly climb out of it, to rearrange time again, to get his memories back, and to some form of normalcy.

After the hearings, after the trial, Ponyboy had never told anyone exactly what it felt like to exist. He hadn't the words for it, what it felt like to float through things, to forget strings of hours or days at once, swimming in it alone. It had taken weeks to slowly climb out of it, to rearrange time again, to get his memories back, and to some form of normalcy. 

In the two years since, he'd have small pockets of time like that, where he'd forget, or where it seemed as if the days blended together. Some days, outright, leaving the bed only happened because of Soda urging him to get up, and once or twice, to his brothers' fright, it hadn't happened at all. 

Since Dallas had become a specter in his life, he hadn't thought about it, too thrown by the series of events itself, trying to adjust to him there, to adjust to the overflow of what was essentially Dallas. 

Until the drawing, he thought he'd had an okay enough handle on it. Until seeing Johnny's face, in those pieces and bits of his life, of Dally's life, staring up at him from the page. 

Dallas doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. He can feel him shifting around, teeming with not just anger. Anger was the language Dallas knew best, but it wasn't his only language, Ponyboy knew better now. Hunger. Desperation. A need to survive. 

As he walks home, fingers still not entirely clean of charcoal, Ponyboy lets the feelings Dallas has wash over him. Getting swept in them doesn't happen right now, and it's a relief. In turn, Ponyboy finds that he doesn't have to verbalize his own in this odd web they had between them, of his own disquiet of having their feelings, their memories mixed up now. 

He allows Dallas to sort through the memories. Ponyboy had told him days ago, after all. He'd come clean, yet it was still an entirely different experience to have it play out like a movie, to have the emotions slip through him of the days after. 

Not once before had Dallas said anything detrimental about it, about the state he'd been in the aftermath of it all. He hadn't prodded too hard, he hadn't made fun of him. 

Now, as Ponyboy begins to sink into that old, strange feeling, he can feel Dallas radiate something that wasn't quite comfort but wasn't quite concern either. Both of those emotions were there as he walked into the house, mechanical and stiff. They feel oddly realer, more vivid than his own emotions as he pilots himself to his bathroom, opening the faucet open, sticking his fingers beneath the cold water. 

The water helps, almost shocking him back into his body, but not entirely. He feels distant, detached, and when he moves his fingers, they don't seem… as if they're his. It's his body before him, it's him moving his fingers. He knows Dallas is watching, waiting, for him to do more, to move and Ponyboy, all he can think is that his body doesn't feel real. It feels as distant as everything else had felt in those days, weeks after they had died. 

Puppeteering. As if his body were on distant strings, not real flesh and blood that belonged to him. 

There's a brush against his mind. Ponyboy lurches forward. 

Then his hands twitch, his wrists roll, and they're moving — not in that stiff way that he felt like this, as if they were being manipulated by strings. The other feeling is distant, as if he were separated by invisible glass. This is different; the way his fingers move, he can feel a bit of cold in them, that kind of cold Dallas always carries now. 

Ponyboy blinks, as they move to get the soap, scrubbing furiously at the coal on there. It's Dallas. Dallas is the one moving his body, making him wash his hands thoroughly, even scrubbing down at his nails. 

His mouth moves without his say so, Dallas' static like voice issuing out, "I got this, man." 

The New York accent feels odd in his mouth. Ponyboy shuts his eyes, lets Dallas take over. 

The other times were so distinctly different, driven by that flicker of rage or the offer of his hand or protection. Unlike those other times, it feels as if he's moved to the passenger side of the car while Dallas takes the wheel. He can concentrate just well enough to tell what Dallas is doing, to read intent but not enough to take over as Dallas is the one who strips him out of his clothes, gets him washed up, and ready for an early bed. There isn't even a sense of embarrassment for him as it happens; only relief for Ponyboy that he doesn't have to be the one to do it, that someone else can help him through this, that there _is_ someone who can when he feels like this. 

When he shuts his eyes, he thinks that he feels something cold settle into his body, into his bones, into his soul. 

He doesn't dream that night and in the morning, he wakes up with that cold feeling. It feels less intrusive, less invasive, and more comforting, like a cool breeze on a summer day rather than something meant to completely freeze him in it's malevolence. 

There's a phantom feeling of a breeze of cold against his cheek. "Go back to bed, Ponyboy."

So Ponyboy does, grateful and comforted by Dallas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👻! comments, kudos, holler at me over on tumblr @madeleinepryor. i've also edited the series so that the spooky szn ficlets are at the very end of the series count and everything else is in publishing order, in case you're wondering why the numbering shifted.


	2. in these four walls my thoughts seem to wander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the one to teach Ponyboy how to drive should have fallen on Soda if things were fair and fucking square. Soda, though, is too lenient and showing Ponyboy how to use a stick shift is something that Steve can do better than Soda.

Being the one to teach Ponyboy how to drive should have fallen on Soda if things were fair and fucking square. Soda, though, is too lenient and showing Ponyboy how to use a stick shift is something that Steve can do better than Soda. 

It doesn't mean Steve has to fucking like it, his temper already short as Ponyboy comes up a few minutes late after school. He honks his horn louder to make Ponyboy walk faster. He jumps and makes himself go quicker across the parking lot, and by the look on his face, he's about excited about this as Steve. 

Great. 

"Come on kid," Steve honks again. Ponyboy flings open the passenger door, slides himself inside, and Steve is off before he can really get the door closed. "Jesus Christ, for some track star, you're slower than my old man." He glances over at Ponyboy in annoyance, who for once, doesn't respond, just putting a cigarette in his mouth, withdrawing a match. Steve watches as he strikes the match against the St. Christopher pendant — something that Steve wishes he wouldn't do. 

Even if no one else wants to discuss it, Steve wants to talk about it. About the fact that Ponyboy is starting to physically morph into a knock of Dallas Winston, and it's giving him the creeps. "You not gonna use a lighter?" 

"Might send up the car in smoke with all the grease in here," Ponyboy decides to be a smart ass, tossing the match out the window, finally lit up. There's that old, annoying, smart ass mouth of his Steve dislikes so much. They make it to the DX okay, Soda still busy elsewhere. 

From there, they switch, Ponyboy going in the driver's seat in the back of the DX. No one is usually around at this time, and Steve just wants to make this quick. There's no learners car or anything, Steve pointing out everything as quick as he can: the lights for the engine, the shift, brake, gas. 

To his annoyance, it seems like every other thing needs to be repeated. Ponyboy seems to frown and prod at the concepts of it all, like he's never seen a car in his life. 

"Come on," Steve is exasperated as the kid shifts the car into the wrong gear as they go around the block for the third time, "How the hell are you gonna go to college and not know how to drive? You expect your brothers to get up there and wipe your ass too?" 

Ponyboy glances at him, and Steve has the funny feeling he's not just looking at him. The way his lip curls in a snarl too feels a little like Dallas too, "Can you shut it for once with the insults and just show me like a normal goddamn person?" His fingers are clenching on the wheel, and Steve is getting a bit better about knowing when to toe the line and when not to.

It's Ponyboy, though, Soda's sensitive, annoying little tag along brother that Steve has never liked. Resentment, annoyance bubbles up faster than it normally would, "You're the one who never uses his damn head!" He reaches over to slap Ponyboy against the head to emphasize his point, ready to really go in on the kid. 

His shot lands.

Normally Pony would take it, be a smart ass or hit him back in the shoulder. 

Not this time. This time, Steve can see him lock up for a second, fingers clenching and unclenching. He whirls around faster than Steve can tell, fingers balled up in a fist, and before Steve can really comprehend it, Ponyboy's mouth pulls into a snarl that he'd seen once on Dallas—

—then his fist is slamming on the side of Steve's head. For a skinny kid who barely ever ate enough, it hurts like hell to be sucker punched like that. There's a power in that punch that leaves Steve stunned in his seat. 

It's long enough that when he sits up, vision clear, the driver's side door is flung open, and Pony is long gone down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💥! comments, kudos, come holler at me on tumblr @madeleinepryor!


	3. i came here to get some peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, goddamn. Looks like I can do something."

Ponyboy gets home, panting with anger. It had been a long, long time since Steve had made him angry like that — and when he lashed out, he knew that it wasn't just him behind that punch. Dallas had been too. Steve had gotten on everyone's nerves at one point or the other, and today, well.

"He'll be fine," Dallas mutters beside him, expression annoyed, "Ain't like I haven't punched him before." 

" _I_ haven't. Not like that," Ponyboy gasps out, leaning against the door. "Darry's gonna kill me. I need to get that done before spring." Dallas makes a dismissive noise, and Ponyboy winces as the memory of Dallas driving up on Jay Mountain flashes through him. He gives Dallas back the memory he had, of being terrified as Dallas took every curve too fast and too hard. 

Dallas snickers, and Ponyboy decides that he wants some peace and quiet for the next few days. He keeps his ears peeled, hoping that Steve won't rat him out more out of pride than anything else. He bets okay, Steve not doing anything but shooting him a glare the next time they meet. 

It's all fine. Thanksgiving is coming up. The week dawns cold, and Ponyboy takes time to curl up in the warm spot Soda leaves that Sunday morning. His mind spirals out in different directions: from concern over the test he wasn't sure he'd done well on, to another dream involving Dallas' memories of New York to wondering what they'd do for Thanksgiving and circling around to when letters would start to come for college. College itself was becoming more and more of an inevitable reality, more real in seriousness. How was he going to choose? How much did Darry have saved up? Soda? Was he going to—

"Too fucking early for you to be thinking this hard, man," Dallas presses a a cold finger on Ponyboy's forehead. 

Ponyboy yelps with the cold, hand swatting out to try and catch Dallas. He hits nothing but air, lifting his head up in irritation. Dallas sneers back in a way that, for him, was good natured from the floor. He looked more solid than ever, the cold from where he touched Ponyboy's skin warming up faster than normal. "What else am I supposed to think about?" He's tired—not the same wrung out kind of tired he'd been for months, though. 

"Morning!" Two-Bit opens the front door, and as usual, slams it. It no longer gets on Ponyboy's nerves; he's long lost that battle. 

"Christ, he's early. Bet you he's here to get breakfast out of you," Dallas comments right as Two-Bit bangs inside, with a cocked grin. Ponyboy grasps his pillow and throws it at Two-Bit reflexively. 

Dallas isn't wrong, as eventually Two-Bit is launching into a story about a blonde as he watches Ponyboy start to make eggs and then pancakes. It takes time, a lazy day winding itself out before them. 

Ponyboy doesn't mind it much, even having a quiet bet with Dallas to see if Two-Bit could flip a pancake — and laughing when it lands right on his face. When breakfast is done, and after having to halfway bully Two-Bit into doing dishes, the older grease leaves, promising to come back that night when all three of the Curtises were available. 

It leaves the house to just Ponyboy and Dallas. Dallas, though, isn't much help from the get go with chores. He leans against the walls, points out the bit of grout Ponyboy forgets to clean up, the carpet where he seems to not get crumbs where needed, needling Ponyboy about being able to reach higher places, and generally is a nuisance right up until Darry calls. 

"Hey, Dar," Ponyboy feels his stomach go a bit squeamish as he takes the call—a call to the house seemed to always bear bad news. "Everything okay?" 

"Yeah," Darry sounds a bit distracted and clearly working, "I just need a favor. I have to pull in some extra hours, can't make it to the store today. You're not in school—" 

"Yeah, yeah, I can get it," there's a sense of relief in Ponyboy, just a store run. "There's money in the kitchen can. What do you need?" 

Dallas glances towards the can. It's an old coffee tin, on the top of the fridge. There's never more than fifty dollars in it at one time, and mostly in change. It's high enough that Ponyboy usually needs to hop a chair to get it, same for Soda, with how far back it is. 

Just his luck.

Ponyboy isn't paying attention as he writes down the list — half of it wasn't exactly new, yet if he didn't write it down, he knew he'd forget it. 

"Thanks, kid brother," Darry says with relief once Ponyboy rattles off the last of it. "And pick up some grits too." 

"Yeah, sure—" 

There's a rattle behind him. Ponyboy glances over his shoulder and feels goose flesh break out on his skin. Dallas is there, gaze focused on the tin can. He looks opaque, eyes bright as the tin can wobbles, floats over to him. Ponyboy barely keeps his voice together, "I'll see you later." 

Darry hangs up just in time for the tin can, now floating above the kitchen table, to give a shuddering wobble and drop. 

Ponyboy is racing to catch it, heart racing as Dallas cracks a grin that's a little too delighted in the chaos he'd just brought. "Well, goddamn. Looks like I can do something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a crime there's no grits emoji tbh. almost at the end of this part! comments, kudos, come holler at me on tumblr @madeleinepryor!


	4. there's no room for you here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standing in the middle of the aisle, with the caked on makeup he knew he for, was Sylvia. Ponyboy could know her a mile off, he wants to immediately turn around and get away from her.

"Do _not_ try that here," Ponyboy hisses out, desperate to keep himself from glancing at Dally in the store. It's not a big place, right in-between Soc and Greaser territory, with prices that sometimes were just out of reach for them. He's not sure how many times Dally had ever gone shopping, except that the more Dallas tried to do his kitchen trick, the more nervous he became, almost like a repeat of the church incident with Two-Bit and Soda. 

Dally merely replied by making the bread on the shelf wiggle more, not fully able to push it out. Whatever calm streak he'd gotten in the past few months, due to not being able to physically affect the world, wasn't there now. Being able to cause a slight bit of mischief had lit a fire under his ass, and Ponyboy really, really didn't want anyone to notice them. 

The list he had from Darry thankfully didn't require too much money, especially with the things on clearance, which was where Ponyboy always headed to first. Grocery shopping usually wasn't his chore so much as it was Darry's. Darry knew the store better, and for Ponyboy, he associated being here more with his mother than anything. Holding her hand, helping her pick out what they needed, having her explain the little contests that were on there. A few times, she'd even written in and won, the prizes always interesting. 

The thought of her clearly hit Dally too, as he stopped making the bread wiggle to look at Ponyboy.

A shared sense of loss passed between them, and then Ponyboy shrugged his shoulders, and tried to concentrate on the list before him. Thinking about his mother now just was opening the pain for him. "Last thing we need is a couple of Jiffy boxes for cornbread."

"And sugar," Dally adds, "You guys are running low on that too and I know Superman uses that for his cornbread." 

Ponyboy blows a bit of his hair from his face, picking up the pace. The lights flickered above him as he made his way down the aisle. "And for the chocolate cake."

He rounds his way into the aisle, all at once instead of the stabbing cold he usually feels, an insurmountable wave of heat washes over him. He can feel his face flush in response, and when he can properly look around, he can see why.

Standing in the middle of the aisle, with the caked on makeup he knew he for, was Sylvia. Ponyboy could know her a mile off, he wants to immediately turn around and get away from her. They hadn't seen her much since she returned what they sent her, and he wasn't in any mood to entertain her. 

He didn't have to look at Dally to know what he felt right now. Not with the wave of heat coming off of him that made his ears flush as much as his cheeks. 

"Oh, hey," Sylvia calls out before he can get away from her, and the heat rises up in his belly in a way that makes him want to squirm and leave. There's Dallas' anger wrapped up in there too, and Ponyboy wants to flee as she walks over, but his legs are rooted to the spot, his hands sweaty. It feels as if his body is being pulled in two directions at once, the whole of him shuddering, floundering for identity, for an anchor and finding none. 

It takes work to find his voice. "Hey, Sylvia," the words come out in a croak, with Dallas on edge of his vision. Sylvia approaches him in a way that resembles how she walked up to Johnny when Dallas had been in the cooler for longer than normal: languid, coiled predatory intent. It makes Ponyboy's stomach flutter and turn in distress. 

That warm heat of anger flashes cool against his spine, as Sylvia gets closer, the memory of the talk they'd had with Johnny not helping. Ponyboy wants to look to him, as a wave of something not quite like protection emanates from Dallas. There's something deeper to it, something that tells Ponyboy that this goes beyond what he would have felt in life if he'd been there, physically seeing this. It's about more than the possibility of Sylvia in a relationship with him. "You uh, shopping for Thanksgiving too?" 

"Sure am," the words conjure up more memories that don't belong to him: of smoke and smeared lipstick, fingers gliding their way up his hips, promises neither of them wanted to keep, of the feeling that both of them were balancing on a knife together, well aware of what the other wanted, of the cost of intimacy. Ponyboy feels as if he's being choked on the memories, on the remembrance of a life that wasn't his, of intimacy that didn't belong to him. It presses down on him as her eyes seem much too sharply interested in him, the same way it was in those memories. "Didn't think I'd ever see you on this side of town. Mind some company? You look like you might need it." Her eyes flicker over his figure, and it's like he's back in _her_ room, the sun barely risen, hand bracing her thigh, knowing that this wasn't going to ever be more than anything but a game between them, that if he said no, she'd find someone no problem and that all they'd ever do was—

They're back in the grocery store. He's back in the grocery store, gut churning uncomfortably, in response. He breathes in, and the air is thick, like ozone.

Sylvia looks moves forward, her hand coming to touch his shoulder. He turns his head, voice low, calm. "Is Buck too busy for you?" The words drop heavy, one by one. His eyes don't look as grey or green as before, the light's flickering above them, showing glints of blue in them. "He finally get bored and kick you out again, before his folks catch on?" 

Sylvia's face goes white as a sheet. The light flickers more, the air growing thicker, worse. 

"Ain't you know better than to try those tricks again? Reaching out to some kid when you know better? Weren't you fucking told to stay away from them? Or did you forget?" The anger is deeper and his hand clamps down on her wrist, artist's fingers now tightly wound on her flesh. "Johnny ain't here anymore and neither am I. But the rules don't fucking change just because you get bored of the same old dick."

"What the fuck—" 

"I know I told you these tricks were old two years ago," His voice gains more anger, drawl thicker. "I didn't forget seeing you with that fuck when I got out of the police station. What was it you said to me when you threw my ring back? That you were tired of fucking some—" 

Sylvia jerks her hand away. She looks terrified as the light above them sparks and pops. 

His eyes look a terrifyingly cold blue, the grey and green completely gone from it. She backs away, turns and runs. They watch her as the other lights in the grocery store begin to burn and pop one after the other, as if they are chasing her out themselves. The smell of burning oil, ozone and blood permeates the air, and he thinks he can taste it, heavy on his tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😈 thanks for reading! see you guys on the next part! comments, kudos, come see me on tumblr, i'm @madeleinepryor.


End file.
